The Sun Is Also a Star(56)

“You really hate talking about serious things, don’t you?”

“Have you ever had to pee really bad?” she asks. “It’s a serious thing. You could cause serious damage to your bladder by—”

“Do you really have to pee?” I ask.

“No.”

“Answer the question,” I tell her. I’m not letting her joke her way out of this one.

“You first,” she says, sighing.

“Happy, horny, and hopeful.”

“Alliteration. Nice.”

“Your turn, and you have to be sincere,” I tell her.



She sticks her tongue out at me. “Confused. Scared.”

I pull her hand into my lap. “Why are you scared?”

“It’s been a long day. This morning I thought I was being deported. I’ve been gearing myself up for that for two months. Now it looks like I’ll get to stay.”

She turns to look at me. “And then there’s you. I didn’t know you this morning, and now I don’t really remember not knowing you. It’s all a little much. I feel out of control.”

“Why is that so bad?” I ask.

“I like to see things coming. I like to plan ahead.”

And I get it. I really do. We are programmed to plan ahead. It’s part of our rhythm. The sun rises every day and defers to the moon every night. “Like the security guard said, though—planning doesn’t always work.”

“Do you think that’s true? I think mostly you can plan. Mostly things don’t just come out of nowhere and bowl you over.”

“Probably the dinosaurs thought that too, and look what happened to them,” I tease.

Her smile is so broad that I have to touch her face. She turns her face in to my palm and kisses it. “Extinction-level events notwithstanding, I think you can plan ahead,” she says.

“I bowled you over,” I remind her, and she doesn’t deny it.

“Anyway,” I say. “So far you only have two things—confused and scared.”

“All right, all right. I’ll give you what you want and say ‘happy.’?”

I sigh dramatically. “You could’ve said that one first.”



“I like suspense,” she says.

“No you don’t.”

“You’re right. I hate suspense.”

“Happy because of me?” I ask.

“And not being deported. But mostly you.”

She pulls our joined hands to her lips and kisses mine. I could stay here forever interrupting our talking with kissing, interrupting our kissing with talking.

“When are we doing the staring-into-each-other’s-eyes thing?” I ask.

She rolls the very eyes that I want to stare into. “Later. After your interview,” she says.

“Don’t be scared,” I tease.

“What’s to be scared of? All you’ll see is iris and pupil.”

“The eyes are the windows to the soul,” I counter.

“Stuff and nonsense,” she says.

I check the time on my phone unnecessarily. I know it’s almost time for my interview, but I want to linger out here in sky city some more. “Let’s get in a couple more questions,” I say. “Lightning round. What’s your most treasured memory?”

“The first time I got to eat ice cream in a cone instead of in a cup,” she says with no hesitation.

“How old were you?”

“Four. Chocolate ice cream while wearing an all-white Easter Sunday dress.”

“Whose idea was that?” I ask.

“My father’s,” she says, smiling. “He used to think I was the greatest thing ever.”



“And he doesn’t anymore?”

“No,” she says.

I wait for her to continue, but she moves on: “What’s your memory?”

“We took a family trip to Disney World when I was seven. Charlie really wanted to go on Space Mountain, but my mom thought it’d be too scary for me and she wouldn’t let him go by himself. And neither of my parents wanted to go.”

She tightens her grip on my hands, which is cute since I clearly survived the experience. “So what happened?”

“I convinced my mom that I really wasn’t scared. I told her I’d been looking forward to the ride since forever.”

“But you weren’t?” she asks.

“No. I was scared shitless. I just did it for Charlie.”

She bumps my shoulder and teases. “I already like you. You don’t have to convince me that you’re a saint.”

“That’s the thing. I wasn’t being saintly. I think I knew our relationship wasn’t going to last. I was just trying to convince him I was worth it. It worked too. He told me I was brave and he let me finish all his popcorn.”

I tilt my head back and look up at the clouds. They’re barely moving across the sky.

“Do you think it’s funny that both of our favorite memories are about the people we like the least now?” I ask.

“Maybe that’s why we dislike them,” she says. “The distance between who they were and who they are is so wide, we have no hope of getting them back.”